Celebrations, For Lack of a Better Term
by afallentree
Summary: Albania, a South-Eastern European Nation, is struggling with the concept of open femininity, after centuries of living under a vow that forced her to live as a man. Some RomanoXOCAlbania.


Celebrations

Albania's P.O.V

Translations: Ragazza- Girl

Notice: I don't Hetalia, or any of its characters included in this story.

I stare down into the half-finished mug of golden German beer, the third one to be truthful. Girls aren't supposed to get drunk in public I remind myself. But I don't look like a girl, my raven hair is cut short, and I disregarded the dress my boss bought me in favor of my military uniform, with pants obviously. I felt naked wearing it. In this military uniform with my breasts bound down, I am comfortable, and I don't stand out from any other axis solider in the mess hall. There are some women around, mostly German nurses. They are all very feminine in their skirts and clacking high heels, constantly hit on by men. How can they be comfortable? I certainly wouldn't want some beefy Potato Bastard hanging all over me. Did I just say Potato Bastard? Romano must be rubbing off on me.

Though there were a few German soldiers in the mess hall I occasionally get along with, among them was Prussia.

"Perhaps there is some hope for you Potato-Bastards, you're alright. "I said a bit drunkenly, she would not have said that so casually if she were sober.

"I don't need hope I am the awesome Prussia!" The loud sliver-heard German said after finishing his fifth beer.

"When is the last time you did something? Like 200 years ago? You sure talk big for a guy who isn't even on the map anymore". I said with a smirk, taking another swing of my beer, finishing the pint.

"Let's have a drink*HIC* king contest if you think you're so awesome!" Yelled Prussia.

"Challenge Accepted, but let's do it with raki." I said throwing my femininity in the wind.

"R-raki?"

"It's verrrrrrrrrry strong *Hic* liquor from my home, it'll put your bitch ass German beer to shame."

"OH ITS ON." Prussia slurred.

I lined up the shot classes, five for each. Prussia eyed the glasses like a foe to be vanquished in battle. I had seen that look in Turkey's eyes as well. We both took one shot, then two. On the third my hand started to tremble, though I pressed on. I swallowed the fourth; Prussia certainly wasn't looking too good either as I downed the fifth, while he stared into nothingness with glazed eyes.

* * *

Albania had blacked out, and heard nothing but shouting, something about potatoes and a lot of swearing. When she came to she was being dragged along, her arm around someone's shoulders, and a warm hand at her waist. Through her stupor, she began to panic due to their closeness. However, when she looked at his face she discovered it was Romano. The panic set in again and a blush formed across her cheeks as she was pretty sure he could feel her curves through her military uniform. She struggled away from his grasp. Staggering, of course.

"What are you doing, Ragazza? He asked with a raised eyebrow, the usual melancholy expression on his face.

"I…I… don't know." She slurred.

"Well I was taking you back your tent, it's no good for a lady to be drunk like that in front of a bunch of Potato Bastards." He said sourly.

"But *Hic* you're the only one who knows I'm a girl, no one would… mess with a drunk guy stumbling through camp". Albania pointed out.

"Sorry… I forget sometimes." He said facing away from her blushing like mad.

"At any rate… if I don't escort you to your tent you'll do something stupid, end up in the woods or the Allies Camp. And I can't promise I'll save you when that happens." Romano said, his blush now replaced by a smirk.

Albania was too drunk to process that.

So Romano swung her arm over his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her. He couldn't help but marvel at how good her waist felt.

As they neared her tent, Albania tripped over something, but before she could crash to the ground Romano caught her. The way in which he had caught her was, very close. Arms wrapped around her waist as she gripped his shoulders for support. At this point, Albania was too drunk and too tired to fuss over how close he was. He was comfortable. She breathed in the smell of tomatoes that always lingered on him and his lean and somewhat muscular torso felt nice against her. Romano felt a blush spread across his face, she felt flat chested, so different from the Italian women he held in his arms before. Yet, the only thing that bothered him was that she was drunk, he was sober and that this was like he was taking advantage of her. However, before he could release her, her lips pressed against his own. Romano couldn't help but to return the kiss, despite her how much her breath smelt of alcohol.

* * *

Turkey's P.O.V

As Turkey rounded the corner of a few tents, he saw a sight that he could never un-see. His sister, seemingly unconscious, in the arms of a dark haired Italian man. Rage built up in Turkey as he remembered a French proverb told to him by France. "Never trust Italians with your sister." The Frenchman had once said coolly, in contrast to the rage he felt towards this Italian fiend who kissed his baby sister with a mouth that probably smelt like garlic.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, garlic breath?! You release my baby sister right now or you will discover the excruciating pain of being castrated by my sword!"

Romano turned pale, realizing two things simultaneously; one, the raven haired woman was very passed out and no longer participating in the kiss. Secondly, he was about to be murdered by Turkey. Romano suddenly dropped Albania, who landed in the dirt with a groan, while Romano ran for the hills, with Turkey not far behind. They both left her on the ground where she awoke in the morning, very hangover and not able to remember anything.


End file.
